Hard Revolution

“Soon.”

Stewart studied Martini. Martini lowered his eyes.

Hess hit his smoke down to the filter and crushed it under his boot. He looked at the radio on the shelf with something like hate. “Buzz?”

“What?”

“What the fuck is this rughead singin’ about, anyway?”

Stewart turned to Hess. “That’s Levi Stubbs, you dumb shit.”

“So?”

“So it shows what you don’t know.”

“Thought we was gonna do some sportin’ tonight. I ain’t come here to listen to no songs.”

Stewart said, “Let’s go.”

Martini grabbed a can of Schlitz and popped it. Hess casually took a pill from his pocket, popped it in his mouth, and washed it down with beer. Stewart found a small black case in a footlocker, set the case on the workbench, and opened its lid. He extracted his derringer, an American single-shot stainless.38 with rosewood grips, from its place in the red velvet lining. He put one foot up on a stool and slipped the derringer into his boot.

“I’ll meet you guys out front,” said Stewart. “I gotta say good-bye to my mom.”

“WHERE YOUR GIRL at, Alvin?” said Kenneth Willis.

“Back there fuckin’ with that kid.”

“Must not have been back there all day, though.”

“Why you say that?”

“It smells like Charlie the Tuna been swimmin’ through here, cuz.”

“Yeah, well, you know.”

Alvin Jones and Kenneth Willis laughed and touched hands.

Jones sat on a big cushioned chair. He had the smell of whiskey on him but had not offered any kind of refreshment to Willis or Dennis Strange. Both were standing in the cramped living room of Lula Bacon’s apartment.

Dennis looked down at Jones, compact, freckled, with a yellow color to his skin. Wearing a gold Ban-Lon shirt with wide vertical black stripes, black slacks, and hard shoes of imitation-reptile tooled leather. Dennis could see his socks, sheer, almost, except for the solid parallel lines running through them. The slick brothers called these Thick ’n Thins. This was one slick man right here.

“What you lookin’ at, boy?” said Jones. His eyes were golden, the same color as his shirt.

“Nothin’,” said Dennis.

“Oh, you lookin’, all right. Always lookin’. You into the details of everything, I can tell. Got this outfit at Cavalier, on Seventh, case you wonderin’.” Jones wiggled one foot. “I can see you diggin’ on my gators, too. Saw ’em in the window of Flagg Brothers. Wouldn’t buy my shoes anyplace else.”

Those aren’t real gators, thought Dennis. And you ain’t shit.

“I’ll take you down to F Street with me next time; we can hook you up with a pair, too,” said Jones, going on despite the fact that Dennis had not replied. “Get you out of them Kinneys you wearin’.”

“I don’t need you to pick out my shoes.”

Jones laughed. “Well, you damn sure look like you could use someone’s help.”

“Why we listenin’ to the news?” said Willis, who had gone to the stereo and was reaching for the tuner dial.

“Don’t touch that,” said Jones.

“I was gonna move it over to OL,” said Willis. “All’s they doin’ is talkin’.”

“Uh-uh, man, leave it on OOK. That’s me right there.”

“They both the same.”

“K comes before L,” said Jones. “Don’t you know that?”

Willis looked at him, openmouthed, and stepped back from the unit. “Say, man, what you fixin’ to play tomorrow?”

“Well, I got a problem with that,” said Jones. “I was picking Frank Howard for the first number, but Howard plays left. Ain’t no base you can draw it from…”

“Seven,” said Dennis Strange.

“Say what?”

“Left is the seventh position on the field. It’s what the stats man uses when he’s making a mark in his book.”

Jones winked. “Damn, boy, you smart. All them books you be readin’ must be sinkin’ in.”

“Just tryin’ to help.”

“Nah, you a smart one, I can tell.” Jones showed Dennis Strange his teeth. “A detail man.”

Dennis knew Alvin Jones from nine years back, through Kenneth, but it seemed he had always known his kind. Jones had that crocodile smile and those cut-you-for-nothin’ eyes that Dennis had seen on certain neighborhood crawlers his whole life. Dennis had returned from the navy determined not to hang with these types, who perpetrated violent shit against their own people and treated their women like dogs. It was Willis, stupid and not as slick, but just as willing to do low things, who had put them all back together. And here was Dennis, selling reefer for a Park View dealer, taking government disability, high during the daytime, having no job. Just like them. Dennis’s father called them no-accounts. Now he was one, too.

“You want your gage?” said Dennis, cutting his eyes away from Jones’s.

“You bring it?”

Dennis patted the pocket of his slacks. “Right here.”

“Lemme see.”

Dennis found a bag in his pocket and handed Jones the ounce he had asked for. Jones opened it and smelled the contents. He hefted the bag to feel its weight.

“It’s right,” said Dennis.

“How much?”

“Thirty.”

“For this here?”

“Didn’t grow in no alley.”

“Okay. But I’m a little light this evening. I don’t have the full amount on me, see?”

“You don’t have it on you, huh. You gonna get it, though, right?”

“What, you don’t trust a brother? You, who’s always goin’ on about unity, now you gonna act like that?”

“I trust you,” said Dennis, hating his weakness and the lie.

“Look here.” Jones made a show of glancing around, making sure Lula was not anywhere nearby. “This woman I know, she gonna front me for it.”

“When?”

“We’ll go over there right now. She’s gonna have to write you out a check, though.”

“My man don’t take checks.”

“He gonna have to take one tonight. It’s Sunday, man. What you think, they gonna open up the banks just for this girl?”

“Check better be good.”